Knowing our Sun was once a star
permits my thoughts to wander far.
Raising my eyes at night to see
the twinkling stars look back at me.
The closest ones fill out my view,
and far beyond Earth's avenue,
deep endless space holds many more
beyond which we cannot explore
Are we alone- most want to know!
Probability assumes no!
A star can turn into a Sun-
attracting planets to be spun.
A distant Sun could be like ours
progressing from the realm of stars,
develop its own atmosphere;
that part for life becomes so clear.
Providing all the minerals
and moisture in the air that spills
in making clouds that form the rain
which living things must have, retain.
The law of probability
says yes! Impossibility -
Earth can not be the only one!
Surely, there is a distant Sun.
It earns its place under the sun in May -
A tiny speck against the evergreen.
Nourished by raindrops poised for its display,
Slim but what Glory! In grand Nature’s scene.
In summer lush the flowers take the lead,
They have it all - a beauty and such scent.
Leaf in the woods, reluctant to concede,
Assumes supporting role in full consent.
In Autumn flash the leaf - a centrepiece,
Its pulsing palette wins and takes it all…
All Nature bends to seasonal caprice,
Leaf in the woods, from triumph to the fall.
Succumbs to weather whims, weak and worn-out,
It’s fleeting life leaves nothing but a doubt.
August 11, 2026
We tip with easy hands, folded monetary grace
a gratuity for servers bearing plates through crowded rooms;
their labor seen, their weary, waiting face
a quiet plea our gratitude easily assumes.
Why is it then that the offering plate in Sunday’s space
moves down the pew, our giving often blooms
into reluctance — guarded, slow, displaced?
For God asks softly, hidden from our sight;
no apron, no refilled glass, no hurried pace ~
just love received, too vast to name or trace.
And so we clutch the gift meant to be given,
forgetting open hands are how we live in grace.
“Where mind and speech can utter nothing, how can there be instruction by a teacher? To the teacher-ever united with Brahman, who has said these words, the homogeneous Truth shines out.”
We cannot use mind to transcend the mind,
so in silence, our presence self-aware,
doing nothing becomes divine aligned
and with mind of God does seamlessly pair,
revealing light of Self, stark clear and bare.
Even prior to manifestation,
pulsating in the womb of creation,
we see everything as a oneness field
and as such there is no separation,
save in dreams birthed by power God does wield.
Given the truth, of what use is prayer,
which assumes that God is at a distance,
negating His presence that’s everywhere?
Our meditation offers resistance,
being but mind’s dogmatic insistence.
Simply by resting in blissful repose,
we don’t attain yet we metamorphose,
going beyond space-time as living light
and as in time our heart’s magnetism grows,
upon ego death we secure clear sight.
Onto hope is necessity
If waiting would not profit
Growth rate of yeasty bids
Boldly into anticipating yields
For anointed oil to fill pot to its brim
Hope hurts hasty head,
Healing heart's hindrance hurting...
Higher honor's host.
Onto chance is doubt
If shaky wait looses grip
Of expected time of being
Beyond what caution's seat
Can tame to ease such tension
Waiting weighs wit's will,
Wether with weight, work wows well,
Wad weary wall's war.
Onto anxiety is probability
If due luck isn't forthcoming
Gradually brighter to dying eyes
For long viewing afar its due arrival
Building capacity to hastily bear its cross
Anxiety ace acts,
Awaiting apt adjustments...
Alive abounding.
Onto peace is accord
If faith assumes rightly
Tightening Word's interval
Which drowning sea can't sink
Timing unfulfilled drift beforehand
Faith fights for future,
Featuring failure fearing...
Fulfilling fortunes.
Onto belief is assurance
If rest solely on its scope
Trying time's ton ultimately
Search endlessly not too early
Yet assessment bids via grace
Resting relieve risks,
Racing refined regret's reign...
Rapture reserved raw.
Assumes no one is looking
A wave of nostalgia comes over her
She sheds a solemn tear
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: 3rd place 2025
if a person knows he knows not
and another assumes he does
inquire: to whom do such thoughts come
wisps of smoke in our mind abuzz
staid silence is the direct path
immediate and intimate
thought fog clears and we see our Self
pulse of light that does not abate
Self is That which illuminates
state of ignorance and knowledge
dropping vicarious knowing
light of Self let us acknowledge
save the Self, all else is a dream
where we’re both subject and object
we’re self effulgent consciousness
therefore world of form we reject
“This Holy Sound (Aum) Pranava Sabda manifests spontaneously through culture of Sraddha, the energetic tendency of the heart's natural love; Virya, moral courage; Smriti, true conception; and Samadhi, true concentration.”
~ extract from ‘The Holy Science’
Love dissolve all opposites in its womb
and where true love is, there exists no thought,
so as maverick ego we deplume,
heart animated, we become self-taught.
Courage, conception and concentration,
arise on their own when heart lotus blooms,
that thus feeling one with God’s creation,
we see we are more than our mind assumes.
Embracing all souls and keeping no score,
shifting to feeling and ceasing thinking,
fragrance of love surges forth from our core,
whence we attain awareness unblinking.
Love is the path that is strewn with roses,
where breath by breath we strike blissful poses.
Exploration!
Confound?
In your exit!
Out myself?
"While Lancaster assumes the role"
News and filming
My first conviction times, bold.
Losing renewal values
Abundantcy people on a crime
I'm sure of that much
When I'm in the business transaction, okay and your going?
Off the call.
It ends in you called yourself back, I'm fine.
Freedom from film in French
Just getting to france takes hello's!
Ahoy!
French Prisoners
Kevin and the Irish actress stay put
Get Lara's the news
Lara's in the system, finally.
Check!
Your message was sent successfully. Thanks
Juliet Society
Tingly skies full of surprise oh how I love when with surmise,
the little rascal aims his dart as if it were, poetic art !
The juvenile lyrical mind under infantile skin,
like the sweetness of the fruit ripe already,
will have the mute desire to reach and win
with artistic heart pulsating within puerile body.
Rising from the depth of ageless emotion,
spreading like waters of the flooding river,
love assumes a heavenly halcyon dimension
in a delightful art framed with platonic fervor.
When the yarn of yearning sews the closed eye,
on the flapping eyelids the bird of passion flies.
The flight makes all the dreams to rise high,
float like shapeless clouds in the seamless skies.
If in the same rhythm the two hearts beat,
time arrow will stop for you, making no sense.
Past forgotten, in the present two souls will meet,
sunk in the depth of blind love without pretense.
When cupid's arrow aims for you, there isn't much that you can do !
We are not cynical
She had been married once or twice and lived among
the rich, that was what happened to air hostesses when
there was a frisson about this job.
Her last husband came from Amsterdam, a doyen of
the fur trade, elegantly dressed, and a walking stick
With a stick, one assumes he was quite elderly.
He had bought her a flat with many rooms, too many
one of lesser background would think, then to her
surprise, he suddenly died
So what was a girl to do, sitting with a flat not all
paid for, sensibly, she rented out the flat to people
Who could pay and keep the heating on come winter
Then she met her final man just as her legs were
getting tired, he would do, she thought he had a car
and doesn't bother about a high-flying life
Thus, a love story blossomed, if not a lady and a trap
Yet, a love story of a sort, he needs her to do the talking
So he can sit in his room and write
The fidelity
the sin of the flesh, why is it a sin
sexuality is a strong and natural desire
but often the downfall of the great
who lacks respect for lust
treats it with a low moral attitude
There are the monks of Thailand
naked feet in sandals, and one assumes
naked bodies under burgundy
robes, can so easily fall prey to when
a lady of easy virtues comes along
this could and probably has gone on
for hundreds of years, but it became
a scandal when money came along
I understand the monks, but reserve
my contempt for the likes of Trump and
Dershowits
no separation
not explained
not explainable
can be obvious
dissolving absent
handholds
being
not being that
not being this
but expressing
that and this
finding
what is not lost
a seeker's shock
and demise
perhaps
searching
assumes something
to find with no
expectation that
something is
nothing
It's hard-
when everyone assumes
that you're okay.
When you're not-
you never have been.
You say what they want to hear,
even when it's a lie.
Because you're afraid
of what they might think.
Whatever you think that might be-
you're wrong.
Trust me.
I've been there.
And if they do think like that,
know this:
they don't deserve someone
as good as
you.
Every time you repeat that phrase-
I'm okay,
you sink deeper
and deeper
and deeper,
until you're stuck
in the quicksand.
Eventually,
your head will go under.
And all hope seems to have disappeared.
forever.
But then comes a hand,
pulling you out of your quicksand.
Struggling,
but never
letting go.
Then there are more.
So many hands.
They crowd around you, searching for a grip,
and lift
until
you begin
to rise.
Up.
"Someday, somewhere - anywhere, unfailingly, you'll find yourself, and that, and only that, can be the happiest or bitterest hour of your life." ~ Pablo Neruda
I sail through citrine waves of the moon’s pulse,
weaving my spark from sea-stars
numb to the blaze of a dream-lashed gaze ~
mute to the masked mist of ghosts,
as somehow between the seraphic sighs
of rising Luna and the aching sun,
there I found my muse crawling and cradling~
clouds of love bathed in luminous lavender…
So tonight, must I heed black-magic mantras,
spelled in neon gold by lips that lie,
or shall I wade through caramelized clarity,
for I’ve long homed hues of blooming twilight,
brushing the wistful heart of waning dusk,
drowning fiery flares within vain veins,
while the wind assumes I’ll touch no sand,
anchored by timeless traces of poetry...
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